 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
107
CUMBERLAND BALLADS.
108
NICHOL THE NEWSMONGER.
Come, Nichol, and gi'e us thy cracks,
I seed te gang down to the smiddy;
I've fodder'd the naigs and the nowt,
And wanted to see thee 'at did e.
Ay, Andrew lad! draw in a stuil,
And gi'e us a shek o' thy daddle;
I got aw the news far and nar,
Sae set off as fast's e could waddle.
I seed te gang down to the smiddy;
I've fodder'd the naigs and the nowt,
And wanted to see thee 'at did e.
Ay, Andrew lad! draw in a stuil,
And gi'e us a shek o' thy daddle;
I got aw the news far and nar,
Sae set off as fast's e could waddle.
In France they've but sworrowfu' teymes,
For Bonnyprat's nit as he sud be;
America's nobbet sae sae;
And England nit quite as she mud be:
Sad wark there's amang blacks and wheytes,
Sec tellin plain teales to their feaces,
Wi' murders, and wars, and aw that,
But, hod—I forget where the pleace is.
For Bonnyprat's nit as he sud be;
America's nobbet sae sae;
And England nit quite as she mud be:
Sad wark there's amang blacks and wheytes,
Sec tellin plain teales to their feaces,
Wi' murders, and wars, and aw that,
But, hod—I forget where the pleace is.
110
Our parson he gat drunk as muck,
Then ledder'd aw t' lads roun about him;
They said he was nobbet hawf reet,
And fwok mud as weel be widout him:
The yell's to be fourpence a whart—
Odswinge, lad, there will be rare drinkin!
Billy Pitt's mad as onie March hare,
And niver was reet fwok are thinkin.
Then ledder'd aw t' lads roun about him;
They said he was nobbet hawf reet,
And fwok mud as weel be widout him:
The yell's to be fourpence a whart—
Odswinge, lad, there will be rare drinkin!
Billy Pitt's mad as onie March hare,
And niver was reet fwok are thinkin.
A weddin we'll hev or it's lang,
Wi' Bet Brag and lal Tommy Tagwally;
Jack Bunton's for off to the sea—
It'll e'en be the deeth of our Sally;
The clogger has bowt a new wig;
Dawston singers come here agean Sunday;
Lord Nelson's ta'en three Spanish fleets;
And the dancin schuil opens on Monday.
Wi' Bet Brag and lal Tommy Tagwally;
Jack Bunton's for off to the sea—
It'll e'en be the deeth of our Sally;
The clogger has bowt a new wig;
Dawston singers come here agean Sunday;
Lord Nelson's ta'en three Spanish fleets;
And the dancin schuil opens on Monday.
Carel badgers are monstrous sad fwok,
The silly peer de'ils how they wring up!
Lal bairns, ha'e got pox frae the kye,
And fact'ries, leyke mushrooms, they spring up:
If they sud keep their feet for a wheyle,
And goverment nobbet pruive civil,
They'll build up as hee as the muin,
For Carel's a match for the deevil.
The silly peer de'ils how they wring up!
Lal bairns, ha'e got pox frae the kye,
And fact'ries, leyke mushrooms, they spring up:
If they sud keep their feet for a wheyle,
And goverment nobbet pruive civil,
They'll build up as hee as the muin,
For Carel's a match for the deevil.
111
The king's meade a bit of a speech,
And gentle fwok say it's a topper;
An alderman deet tudder neet,
Efter eatin a turkey to supper;
Our squire's to be parliment man,
Mess, lad, but he'll keep them aw busy!
Whee thinks te's come heame i' the cwoach,
Frae Lunnon, but grater-feac'd Lizzy.
And gentle fwok say it's a topper;
An alderman deet tudder neet,
Efter eatin a turkey to supper;
Our squire's to be parliment man,
Mess, lad, but he'll keep them aw busy!
Whee thinks te's come heame i' the cwoach,
Frae Lunnon, but grater-feac'd Lizzy.
The cock-feghts are ninth o' neist month,
I've twee, nit aw England can bang them;
In Ireland they're aw up in arms,
It's whop'd there's nee Frenchmen amang them;
A boggle's been seen wi' twee heeds,
Lord help us! ayont Wully' carras,
Wi' girt saucer e'en, and a tail—
They dui say 'twas auld Jobby Barras.
I've twee, nit aw England can bang them;
In Ireland they're aw up in arms,
It's whop'd there's nee Frenchmen amang them;
A boggle's been seen wi' twee heeds,
Lord help us! ayont Wully' carras,
Wi' girt saucer e'en, and a tail—
They dui say 'twas auld Jobby Barras.
The muin was at full this neet week;
The weather is turn'd monstrous daggy;
I' th' loft, just at seeben last neet,
Lal Stephen sweethearted lang Aggy:
There'll be bonny wark bye and bye,
The truth'll be out there's nae fear on't,
But I niver say nought, nay nit I,
For fear hawf the parish sud hear on't.
The weather is turn'd monstrous daggy;
I' th' loft, just at seeben last neet,
Lal Stephen sweethearted lang Aggy:
There'll be bonny wark bye and bye,
The truth'll be out there's nae fear on't,
But I niver say nought, nay nit I,
For fear hawf the parish sud hear on't.
112
Our Tib at the cwose-house hes been,
She tells us they're aw monstrous murry;
At Carel the brig's tummel'd down,
And they tek the fwok owre in a whurry;
I carried our whye to the bull;
They've ta'en seeben spies up at Dover;
My fadder compleens of his hip,
And the Gran Turk hes enter'd Hanover.
She tells us they're aw monstrous murry;
At Carel the brig's tummel'd down,
And they tek the fwok owre in a whurry;
I carried our whye to the bull;
They've ta'en seeben spies up at Dover;
My fadder compleens of his hip,
And the Gran Turk hes enter'd Hanover.
Daft Peg's got hersel, man, wi' bairn,
And silly pilgarlic's the fadder;
Lal Sim's geane and swapp'd the black cowt,
And cwoley has wurriet the wedder;
My mudder has got frostet heels,
And peace is the talk o' the nation,
For paper says varra neist week
There's to be a grand humiliation.
And silly pilgarlic's the fadder;
Lal Sim's geane and swapp'd the black cowt,
And cwoley has wurriet the wedder;
My mudder has got frostet heels,
And peace is the talk o' the nation,
For paper says varra neist week
There's to be a grand humiliation.
Aunt Meable has lost her best sark,
And Cleutie is bleam'd varra mickle;
Nought's seafe out o' duirs now-a-days,
Frae a millstone, e'en down to a sickle:
The clock it streykes eight, I mun heame,
Or I's git a deuce of a fratchin;
When neist we've a few hours to spare,
We'll fin out what mischief's a hatchin.
And Cleutie is bleam'd varra mickle;
Nought's seafe out o' duirs now-a-days,
Frae a millstone, e'en down to a sickle:
The clock it streykes eight, I mun heame,
Or I's git a deuce of a fratchin;
When neist we've a few hours to spare,
We'll fin out what mischief's a hatchin.
July 5, 1802.
113
THE IMPATIENT LASSIE.
Deuce tek the clock; click-clackin sae,
Ay in a body's ear;
It tells an tells the teyme is past,
When Jwohnny sud been here:
Deuce tek the wheel! 'twill nit rin roun—
Nae mair to neet I'll spin;
But count each minute wid a seegh,
Till Jwohnny he steals in.
Ay in a body's ear;
It tells an tells the teyme is past,
When Jwohnny sud been here:
Deuce tek the wheel! 'twill nit rin roun—
Nae mair to neet I'll spin;
But count each minute wid a seegh,
Till Jwohnny he steals in.
How neyce the spunky fire it burns,
For twee to sit beseyde!
An theer's the seat where Jwohnny sits,
An I forget to cheyde!
My fadder, tui, how sweet he snwores!
My mudder's fast asleep—
He promis'd oft, but, oh! I fear
His word he wunnet keep!
For twee to sit beseyde!
An theer's the seat where Jwohnny sits,
An I forget to cheyde!
My fadder, tui, how sweet he snwores!
My mudder's fast asleep—
He promis'd oft, but, oh! I fear
His word he wunnet keep!
114
What can it be keeps him frae me?
The ways are nit sae lang!
An sleet an snow are nought at aw,
If yen wer fain to gang!
Some udder lass, wi' bonnier feace,
Has catch'd his wicked ee,
An I'll be pointed at at kurk—
Nay! suiner let me dee!
The ways are nit sae lang!
An sleet an snow are nought at aw,
If yen wer fain to gang!
Some udder lass, wi' bonnier feace,
Has catch'd his wicked ee,
An I'll be pointed at at kurk—
Nay! suiner let me dee!
O durst we lasses nobbet gang,
An sweetheart them we leyke!
I'd run to thee, my Jwohnny, lad,
Nor stop at bog or deyke:
But custom's sec a silly thing—
Thur men mun hae their way,
An monnie a bonny lassie sit,
An wish frae day to day.
An sweetheart them we leyke!
I'd run to thee, my Jwohnny, lad,
Nor stop at bog or deyke:
But custom's sec a silly thing—
Thur men mun hae their way,
An monnie a bonny lassie sit,
An wish frae day to day.
I yence hed sweethearts monie a yen,
They'd weade thro' muck an mire;
An when our fwok wer deed asleep,
Com tremlin up to t' fire:
At Carel market lads wad stare,
An talk, an follow me;
Wi' feyne shwort keakes, ay frae the fair,
Baith pockets cramm'd wad be.
They'd weade thro' muck an mire;
An when our fwok wer deed asleep,
Com tremlin up to t' fire:
At Carel market lads wad stare,
An talk, an follow me;
Wi' feyne shwort keakes, ay frae the fair,
Baith pockets cramm'd wad be.
115
O dear! what changes women pruive,
In less than seebem year;
I walk the lonnins, owre the muir,
But deil a chap comes near!
An Jwohnny I nee mair can trust—
He's just like aw the lave;
I fin this sairy heart 'll brust!
I'll suin lig i' my grave!
In less than seebem year;
I walk the lonnins, owre the muir,
But deil a chap comes near!
An Jwohnny I nee mair can trust—
He's just like aw the lave;
I fin this sairy heart 'll brust!
I'll suin lig i' my grave!
But, whisht!—I hear my Jwohnny's fit—
Aye! that's his varra clog!
He steeks the faul yeat softly tui—
Oh! hang that cwoley dog!
Now hey for seeghs, an suggar words,
Wi' kisses nit a few—
This warl's a parfet paradeyse,
When lovers they pruive true!
Aye! that's his varra clog!
He steeks the faul yeat softly tui—
Oh! hang that cwoley dog!
Now hey for seeghs, an suggar words,
Wi' kisses nit a few—
This warl's a parfet paradeyse,
When lovers they pruive true!
July 31, 1802.
116
TOM LINTON.
Tom Linton was bworn till a brave canny fortune,
His auld fadder screap'd aw the gear up he cud;
But Tom, country booby, luik'd owre hee abuin him,
And mix'd wi' the bad, nor e'er heeded the gud;
At the town he'd whore, gammle, play hell, and the deevil,
He wad hev his caper, nor car'd how it com;
Then he mud hev his greyhounds, guns, setters, and hunter,
And king o' the cockers they aw cursen'd Tom.
His auld fadder screap'd aw the gear up he cud;
But Tom, country booby, luik'd owre hee abuin him,
And mix'd wi' the bad, nor e'er heeded the gud;
At the town he'd whore, gammle, play hell, and the deevil,
He wad hev his caper, nor car'd how it com;
Then he mud hev his greyhounds, guns, setters, and hunter,
And king o' the cockers they aw cursen'd Tom.
I think I just see how the lads wad flock roun him,
And, oh! they were fain to shek Tom by the han!
Then he'd tell how he fit wi' the barbers and bullies,
And drank wi' the waiter till nowther cud stan:
His watch he wad shew, and his list o' the horses,
And pou out a guinea, and offer to lay,
Till our peer country lads grew uneasy and lazy,
And Tom cud ha'e coax'd hawf the parish away.
And, oh! they were fain to shek Tom by the han!
Then he'd tell how he fit wi' the barbers and bullies,
And drank wi' the waiter till nowther cud stan:
His watch he wad shew, and his list o' the horses,
And pou out a guinea, and offer to lay,
Till our peer country lads grew uneasy and lazy,
And Tom cud ha'e coax'd hawf the parish away.
117
Then he drank wi' the squire, and laugh'd wid his worship,
And talk'd o' the duke, and the deevil kens whee;
He gat aw the new-fangl'd oaths i' the nation,
And mock'd a peer beggar man wantin an ee;
His fields they were morgag'd; about it was whisper'd;
A farmer was robb'd nit owre far frae his house;
At last aw was selt his auld fadder had toil'd for,
And silly Tom Linton left nit worth a sous.
And talk'd o' the duke, and the deevil kens whee;
He gat aw the new-fangl'd oaths i' the nation,
And mock'd a peer beggar man wantin an ee;
His fields they were morgag'd; about it was whisper'd;
A farmer was robb'd nit owre far frae his house;
At last aw was selt his auld fadder had toil'd for,
And silly Tom Linton left nit worth a sous.
His fortune aw spent, what! he'd hae the laird's dowter,
But she pack'd him off wid a flee in his ear;
Neist thing, an auld comrade, for money Tom borrow'd,
E'en pat him in prison, and bad him lig theer:
At last he gat out, efter lang he had suffer'd,
And sair had repented the sad life he'd led:
Widout shun till his feet, in a sowdger's auld jacket,
He works on the turnpeyke reet hard for his bread.
But she pack'd him off wid a flee in his ear;
Neist thing, an auld comrade, for money Tom borrow'd,
E'en pat him in prison, and bad him lig theer:
At last he gat out, efter lang he had suffer'd,
And sair had repented the sad life he'd led:
Widout shun till his feet, in a sowdger's auld jacket,
He works on the turnpeyke reet hard for his bread.
Now folly seen intui, ragg'd, peer, and down-hearted,
He toils and he freets, and keen wants daily press;
If cronies reyde by, wey, alas! they've forgot him,
For whee can remember auld friends in distress?
O pity, what pity, that, in ev'ry county,
Sae mony Tom Lintons may always be found!
Deuce tek aw girt nwotions, and whurligig fashions,
Contentment's a kingdom, aye, aw the warl round!
He toils and he freets, and keen wants daily press;
If cronies reyde by, wey, alas! they've forgot him,
For whee can remember auld friends in distress?
O pity, what pity, that, in ev'ry county,
Sae mony Tom Lintons may always be found!
Deuce tek aw girt nwotions, and whurligig fashions,
Contentment's a kingdom, aye, aw the warl round!
August 24, 1802.
118
KITT CRAFFET.
Isaac Crosset, o' Shawk, a feyne heed-sten hes cutten
And just setten't up owr anent the kurk en;
A chubby-feac'd angel o'top on't they've putten,
And varses, as gud as e'er com frae a pen:
It's for auld Kit Craffet, our wordy wise neybor,
God rest him! a better man ne'er wore a head;
He's nit left his fellow thro' aw the heale county,
And monie peer fwok are in want, now he's dead.
And just setten't up owr anent the kurk en;
A chubby-feac'd angel o'top on't they've putten,
And varses, as gud as e'er com frae a pen:
It's for auld Kit Craffet, our wordy wise neybor,
God rest him! a better man ne'er wore a head;
He's nit left his fellow thro' aw the heale county,
And monie peer fwok are in want, now he's dead.
I meynd when at schuil, a reet top scholar was he;
Of lakin or rampin nae nwotion had he,
But nar the auld thworn he wad sit and keep mwosin,
And caw'd it a sin just to kill a peer flee:
A penny he never let rest in his pocket,
But gev't to the furst beggar body he met;
Then at kurk he cud follow the priest thro' the sarvice,
And as for a tribble he niver was bet.
Of lakin or rampin nae nwotion had he,
But nar the auld thworn he wad sit and keep mwosin,
And caw'd it a sin just to kill a peer flee:
A penny he never let rest in his pocket,
But gev't to the furst beggar body he met;
Then at kurk he cud follow the priest thro' the sarvice,
And as for a tribble he niver was bet.
119
Tho' he wan seebem belts lang afwore he was twenty,
And in Scealeby meedow oft tuik off the baw,
Yet he kent aw the beyble, algebra, Josephus,
And capp'd the priest, maister, exciseman and aw.
He cud talk about battles, balloons, burnin mountains,
And wars, till baith young and auld trimmel'd for fear,
Then he'd tell how they us'd the “peer West Indie negers.”
And stamp wid his fit, aye, and drop monie a tear.
And in Scealeby meedow oft tuik off the baw,
Yet he kent aw the beyble, algebra, Josephus,
And capp'd the priest, maister, exciseman and aw.
He cud talk about battles, balloons, burnin mountains,
And wars, till baith young and auld trimmel'd for fear,
Then he'd tell how they us'd the “peer West Indie negers.”
And stamp wid his fit, aye, and drop monie a tear.
When he read about parliments, pleaces, and changes,
He flang by the paper, and cried, “Silly stuff!
The Outs wad be in, and the Ins rob their country,
They're nit aw together worth ae pinch o' snuff!”
His creed was—Be statesmen but just, Britons loyal,
And lang as our shippen reyde maisters at sea,
We'll laugh at the puffin o' vain Bonnyparty,
As suin may he conquer the deevil as we.
He flang by the paper, and cried, “Silly stuff!
The Outs wad be in, and the Ins rob their country,
They're nit aw together worth ae pinch o' snuff!”
His creed was—Be statesmen but just, Britons loyal,
And lang as our shippen reyde maisters at sea,
We'll laugh at the puffin o' vain Bonnyparty,
As suin may he conquer the deevil as we.
Then when onie neybor was fash'd by the turnies,
Oh, it meade him happy if he cud be bail!
Twea-thurds of his income he gev away yearly,
And actually tuik peer Tom Linton frae jail.
He was yence cross'd in luive by a guid-for-nought hussey,
But if onie lass by her sweetheart was wrang'd,
He wad give her guid counsel, and lecture the fellow,
And oft did he wish aw sec skeybels were hang'd.
Oh, it meade him happy if he cud be bail!
Twea-thurds of his income he gev away yearly,
And actually tuik peer Tom Linton frae jail.
He was yence cross'd in luive by a guid-for-nought hussey,
But if onie lass by her sweetheart was wrang'd,
120
And oft did he wish aw sec skeybels were hang'd.
He cud mek pills and plaisters as weel as our doctor,
And cure cholic, aga, and jaunice forby;
As for greece, or the glanders, red watter, or fellen,
Nin o' them was leyke him, amang naigs or kye:
What, he talk'd to the bishop about agriculture,
And yence went to Plymouth to see the grand fleet;
As for the brave sailors trail'd off by the press-gangs,
“Od die them!” he said, “that can never be reet!”
And cure cholic, aga, and jaunice forby;
As for greece, or the glanders, red watter, or fellen,
Nin o' them was leyke him, amang naigs or kye:
What, he talk'd to the bishop about agriculture,
And yence went to Plymouth to see the grand fleet;
As for the brave sailors trail'd off by the press-gangs,
“Od die them!” he said, “that can never be reet!”
He ne'er was a drinker, a swearer, a feghter,
A cocker, a gamler, a fop, or a fuil;
But left this sad warl just at threescwore and seebem,
I' the clay house his granfadder built wi' the schuil.
Oh! monie a saut tear will be shed ev'ry Sunday,
In readin the varses they've stuck on his steane;
'Till watters run up bank, and trees they grow
down bank,
We never can luik on his marrow agean!
A cocker, a gamler, a fop, or a fuil;
But left this sad warl just at threescwore and seebem,
I' the clay house his granfadder built wi' the schuil.
Oh! monie a saut tear will be shed ev'ry Sunday,
In readin the varses they've stuck on his steane;
'Till watters run up bank, and trees they grow
down bank,
We never can luik on his marrow agean!
January 2, 1807.
121
WATTY.
If you ax where I come frae, I say the fell seyde,
Where fadder and mudder, and honest fwok beyde;
And my sweetheart, O bliss her! she thought nin leyke me,
For when we shuik hans the tears gush'd frae her ee:
Says I, ‘I mun e'en get a spot if I can,
But, whativer beteyde me, I'll think o' thee, Nan!’
Where fadder and mudder, and honest fwok beyde;
And my sweetheart, O bliss her! she thought nin leyke me,
For when we shuik hans the tears gush'd frae her ee:
Says I, ‘I mun e'en get a spot if I can,
But, whativer beteyde me, I'll think o' thee, Nan!’
Nan was a parfet beauty, wi' twee cheeks leyke codlin blossoms: the varra seet on her meade my mouth aw watter. ‘Fares-te-weel, Watty!’ says she; ‘tou's a wag amang t' lasses, and I'll see thee nae mair!’— ‘Nay, dunnet gowl, Nan! says I,
‘For, mappen, er lang, I's be maister mysel;’
Sae we buss'd, and I tuik a last luik at the fell.
Sae we buss'd, and I tuik a last luik at the fell.
On I whussel'd and wonder'd—my bundle I flung
Owre my shou'der, when Cwoley he efter me sprung,
And howl'd, silly fellow! and fawn'd at my fit,
As if to say, Watty, we munnet part yet!
At Carel I stuid wi' a strae i' my mouth,
And they tuik me, nae doubt, for a promisin youth.
Owre my shou'der, when Cwoley he efter me sprung,
And howl'd, silly fellow! and fawn'd at my fit,
As if to say, Watty, we munnet part yet!
122
And they tuik me, nae doubt, for a promisin youth.
The weyves com roun me in clusters: ‘What weage dus te ax, canny lad?’ says yen. ‘Wey, three pun and a crown; wunnet beate a hair o' my beard.’— ‘What can te dui?’ says anudder. ‘Dui! wey I can pleugh, sow, mow, sheer, thresh, deyke, milk, kurn, muck a byre, sing a psolm, men car-gear, dance a whornpeype, nick a naig's tail, hunt a brock, or feght iver a yen o' my weight in aw Croglin parish.’
Auld Margery Jackson suin caw't me her man;
But that day, I may say't, aw my sorrows began.
But that day, I may say't, aw my sorrows began.
Furst, Cwoley, peer fellow! they hang'd i' the street,
And skinn'd, God forgi' them! for shun to their feet.
I cry'd, and they caw'd me peer hawf-witted clown,
And banter'd and follow'd me aw up and down:
Neist my deame she e'en starv'd me, that niver liv'd weel;
Her hard words and luiks wou'd ha'e freeten'd the deil:—
And skinn'd, God forgi' them! for shun to their feet.
I cry'd, and they caw'd me peer hawf-witted clown,
And banter'd and follow'd me aw up and down:
Neist my deame she e'en starv'd me, that niver liv'd weel;
Her hard words and luiks wou'd ha'e freeten'd the deil:—
She hed a lang beard, for aw t' warl leyke a billy goat, wi' a kil-dried frosty feace: and then the smawest leg o' mutton in aw Carel market sarrad the cat, me, and hur for a week. The bairns meade sec gam on us, and thunder'd at the rapper, as if to waken a corp: when I open'd the duir, they threw stour i' my een, and caw'd me daft Watty;
123
Sae I pack'd up my duds when my quarter was out,
And, wi' weage i' my pocket, I saunter'd about.
And, wi' weage i' my pocket, I saunter'd about.
Suin my reet-han breek pocket thy pick'd in a fray,
And wi' fifteen wheyte shillins they slipp'd clean away,
Forby my twee letters frae mudder and Nan,
Where they said Carel lasses wad Watty trapan:
But 'twoud tek a lang day just to tell what I saw,
How I sceap'd frae the gallows, the sowdgers and aw.
And wi' fifteen wheyte shillins they slipp'd clean away,
Forby my twee letters frae mudder and Nan,
Where they said Carel lasses wad Watty trapan:
But 'twoud tek a lang day just to tell what I saw,
How I sceap'd frae the gallows, the sowdgers and aw.
Aa, there were some fworgery chaps bad me just sign my neame. ‘Nay,’ says I, ‘you've gotten a wrang pig by t' lug, for I canna write.’ Then a fellow leyke a lobster, aw leac'd and feather'd, ax'd me, ‘Watty, wull te list? thou's owther be a general or a gomoral.'—‘Nay, I wunnet—that's plain: I's content wi' a cwoat o' mudder's spinnin, ’
Now, wi' twee groats and tuppence, I'll e'en toddle heame,
But ne'er be a sowdger wheyle Watty's my neame.
But ne'er be a sowdger wheyle Watty's my neame.
How my mudder 'll gowl, and my fadder 'll stare,
When I tell them peer Cwoley they'll niver see mair.
Then they'll bring me a stuil;—as for Nan, she'll be fain,
When I kiss her, God bliss her, agean and agean!
The barn, and the byre, and the auld hollow tree,
Will just seem leyke cronies yen's fidgin to see.
When I tell them peer Cwoley they'll niver see mair.
Then they'll bring me a stuil;—as for Nan, she'll be fain,
When I kiss her, God bliss her, agean and agean!
The barn, and the byre, and the auld hollow tree,
Will just seem leyke cronies yen's fidgin to see.
124
The sheep 'll nit ken Watty's voice now! The peatstack we us'd to lake roun 'll be brunt ere this! As for Nan, she'll be owther married or broken hearted; but sud aw be weel at Croglin, we'll hae feastin, fiddlin, dancin, drinkin, singin, and smuikin, aye, till aw's blue about us:
Amang aw our neybours sec wonders I'll tell,But niver mair leave my auld friens or the fell.
January 10, 1803.
125
THE BLECKELL MURRY-NEET.
Aa, lad! sec a murry-neet we've hed at Bleckell,
The sound o' the fiddle yet rings i' my ear;
Aw reet clipt and heel'd were the lads and the lasses,
And monie a cliver lish huzzy was theer:
The bettermer swort sat snug i' the parlour,
I' th' pantry the sweethearters cutter'd sae soft;
The dancers they kick'd up a stour i' the kitchen;
At lanter the caird-lakers sat i' the loft.
The sound o' the fiddle yet rings i' my ear;
Aw reet clipt and heel'd were the lads and the lasses,
And monie a cliver lish huzzy was theer:
The bettermer swort sat snug i' the parlour,
I' th' pantry the sweethearters cutter'd sae soft;
The dancers they kick'd up a stour i' the kitchen;
At lanter the caird-lakers sat i' the loft.
The clogger o' Dawston's a famish top hero,
And bangs aw the player-fwok twenty to yen;
He stamp'd wid his fit, and he shouted and royster'd,
Till the sweet it ran off at his varra chin en;
Then he held up ae han leyke the spout of a tea-pot,
And danc'd cross the buckle, and leather-te-patch;
When they cried, ‘bonny Bell! ’ he lap up to the ceilin,
And ay crack'd his thoums for a bit of a fratch.
And bangs aw the player-fwok twenty to yen;
He stamp'd wid his fit, and he shouted and royster'd,
Till the sweet it ran off at his varra chin en;
Then he held up ae han leyke the spout of a tea-pot,
And danc'd cross the buckle, and leather-te-patch;
When they cried, ‘bonny Bell! ’ he lap up to the ceilin,
And ay crack'd his thoums for a bit of a fratch.
The Hivverby lads at fair drinkin are seypers;
At cockin the Dawstoners niver wer bet;
The Buckabank chaps are reet famish sweethearters,
Their kisses just soun leyke the sneck of a yeat;
The lasses o' Bleckell are sae monie angels;
The Cummersdale beauties ay glory in fun—
God help the peer fellow that glymes at them dancin,
He'll steal away heartless as sure as a gun!
At cockin the Dawstoners niver wer bet;
The Buckabank chaps are reet famish sweethearters,
Their kisses just soun leyke the sneck of a yeat;
126
The Cummersdale beauties ay glory in fun—
God help the peer fellow that glymes at them dancin,
He'll steal away heartless as sure as a gun!
The 'bacco was strang, and the yell it was lythey,
And monie a yen bottom'd a whart leyke a kurn;
Daft Fred', i' the nuik, leyke a hawf-rwoasted deevil,
Telt sly smutty stwories, and meade them aw gurn;
Then yen sung “Tom Linton,” anudder “Dick Watters,”
The auld farmers bragg'd o' their fillies and fwoals,
Wi' jeybin and jwokin, and hotchin and laughin,
Till some thought it teyme to set off to the cwoals.
And monie a yen bottom'd a whart leyke a kurn;
Daft Fred', i' the nuik, leyke a hawf-rwoasted deevil,
Telt sly smutty stwories, and meade them aw gurn;
Then yen sung “Tom Linton,” anudder “Dick Watters,”
The auld farmers bragg'd o' their fillies and fwoals,
Wi' jeybin and jwokin, and hotchin and laughin,
Till some thought it teyme to set off to the cwoals.
But, hod! I forgat-when the clock strack eleebem,
The dubbler was brong in, wi' wheyte breed and brown;
The gully was sharp, the girt cheese was a topper,
And lumps big as lapstons our lads gobbl'd down:
Ay the douse dapper lanlady, cried, ‘Eat and welcome!
I' God's neame step forret; nay dunnet be bleate!’
Our guts aw weel pang'd, we buck'd up for blin Jenny,
And neist paid the shot on a girt pewder plate.
The dubbler was brong in, wi' wheyte breed and brown;
The gully was sharp, the girt cheese was a topper,
And lumps big as lapstons our lads gobbl'd down:
Ay the douse dapper lanlady, cried, ‘Eat and welcome!
I' God's neame step forret; nay dunnet be bleate!’
Our guts aw weel pang'd, we buck'd up for blin Jenny,
And neist paid the shot on a girt pewder plate.
127
Now full to the thropple, wi' heed-warks and heartaches,
Some crap to the clock-kease instead o' the duir;
Then sleepin and snworin tuik pleace o' their rwoarin,
And teane abuin tudder e'en laid on the fluir.
The last o' December, lang, lang we'll remember,
At five i' the mworn, eighteen hundred and twee:
Here's health and success to the brave Jwohnny Dawston,
And monie sec meetins may we live to see!
Some crap to the clock-kease instead o' the duir;
Then sleepin and snworin tuik pleace o' their rwoarin,
And teane abuin tudder e'en laid on the fluir.
The last o' December, lang, lang we'll remember,
At five i' the mworn, eighteen hundred and twee:
Here's health and success to the brave Jwohnny Dawston,
And monie sec meetins may we live to see!
July 4, 1803
128
THE VILLAGE GANG.
There's sec a gang in our town,
The deevil cannot wrang them,
And cud yen get tem put i' prent,
Aw England cuddent bang them:
Our dogs e'en beyte aw decent fwok,
Our varra naigs they kick them,
And if they nobbet ax their way,
Our lads set on and lick them.
The deevil cannot wrang them,
And cud yen get tem put i' prent,
Aw England cuddent bang them:
Our dogs e'en beyte aw decent fwok,
Our varra naigs they kick them,
And if they nobbet ax their way,
Our lads set on and lick them.
Furst wi' Dick Wiggem we'll begin,
The teyney, greasy wobster:
He's got a gob frae lug to lug,
And neb leyke onie lobster;
Dick' weyfe, they say, was Branton bred,
Her mudder was a howdey,
And when peer Dick's thrang on the luim,
She's off to Jwohnnie Gowdey.
The teyney, greasy wobster:
He's got a gob frae lug to lug,
And neb leyke onie lobster;
Dick' weyfe, they say, was Branton bred,
Her mudder was a howdey,
And when peer Dick's thrang on the luim,
She's off to Jwohnnie Gowdey.
129
But as for Jwohnnie, silly man,
He threeps about the nation,
And talks o' stocks and Charley Fox,
And meks a blusteration;
He reads the paper yence a week,
The auld fwok geape and wonder—
Were Jwohnnie king we'd aw be rich,
And France mud e'n knock under.
He threeps about the nation,
And talks o' stocks and Charley Fox,
And meks a blusteration;
He reads the paper yence a week,
The auld fwok geape and wonder—
Were Jwohnnie king we'd aw be rich,
And France mud e'n knock under.
Lang Peel the laird's a dispert chap,
His weyfe's a famish fratcher—
She brays the lasses, starves the lads,
Nae bandylan can match her:
We aw ken how they gat their gear,
But that's a fearfu' stwory,
And sud he hing on Carel Sands,
Nit yen wad e'er be sworry.
His weyfe's a famish fratcher—
She brays the lasses, starves the lads,
Nae bandylan can match her:
We aw ken how they gat their gear,
But that's a fearfu' stwory,
And sud he hing on Carel Sands,
Nit yen wad e'er be sworry.
Beane-breker Jwohn we weel may neame,
He's tir'd o' wark, confound him!
By manglin limbs and streenin joints,
He's meade aw cripples roun him:
Mair hurt he's duin than onie yen
That iver sceap'd a helter;
When sec leyke guffs leame decent fwok,
It's teyme some laws sud alter.
He's tir'd o' wark, confound him!
By manglin limbs and streenin joints,
He's meade aw cripples roun him:
Mair hurt he's duin than onie yen
That iver sceap'd a helter;
When sec leyke guffs leame decent fwok,
It's teyme some laws sud alter.
130
The schuilmaister's a conjuror,
For when our lads are drinkin,
Aw macks o' tricks he'll dui wi' cairds,
And tell fwok what they're thinkin;
He'll glowr at maps and spell hard words,
For hours and hours together,
And in the muin he kens what's duin—
Nay he can coin the weather!
For when our lads are drinkin,
Aw macks o' tricks he'll dui wi' cairds,
And tell fwok what they're thinkin;
He'll glowr at maps and spell hard words,
For hours and hours together,
And in the muin he kens what's duin—
Nay he can coin the weather!
Then theer's the blacksmith wi' ae ee,
And his hawf-witted mudder,
'Twad mek a deed man laugh to see
Them glyme at yen anudder; A three-quart piggen full o' keale,
He'll sup, the greedy sinner,
Then eat a cow'd-lword leyke his head,
Aye, onie day at dinner.
And his hawf-witted mudder,
'Twad mek a deed man laugh to see
Them glyme at yen anudder; A three-quart piggen full o' keale,
He'll sup, the greedy sinner,
Then eat a cow'd-lword leyke his head,
Aye, onie day at dinner.
Jack Marr, the hirplin piper's son,
Can bang them aw at leein;
He'll brek a lock, or steal a cock,
Wi' onie yen in bein:
He eats guid meat, and drinks strang drink,
And gangs weel graith'd o' Sunday,
And weel he may, a bonny fray
Com out last Whissen-Monday.
Can bang them aw at leein;
He'll brek a lock, or steal a cock,
Wi' onie yen in bein:
He eats guid meat, and drinks strang drink,
And gangs weel graith'd o' Sunday,
And weel he may, a bonny fray
Com out last Whissen-Monday.
131
The doctor he's a parfet pleague,
And hawf the parish puzzens;
The lawyer sets fwok by the lugs,
And cheats them neist by duzzens;
The parson swears a bonny stick
Amang our sackless asses;
The 'squire's ruin'd scwores and scwores
O' canny country lasses.
And hawf the parish puzzens;
The lawyer sets fwok by the lugs,
And cheats them neist by duzzens;
The parson swears a bonny stick
Amang our sackless asses;
The 'squire's ruin'd scwores and scwores
O' canny country lasses.
Theer's twenty mair, coarse as neck beef,
If yen hed teyme to neame them;
Left-handed Sim, slape-finger'd Sam,
Nae law cud iver teame them;
Theer's blue nebb'd Watt, and ewe-chin'd Dick,
Weel wordy o' the gallows—
O happy is the country seyde
That's free frae sec leyke fellows!
If yen hed teyme to neame them;
Left-handed Sim, slape-finger'd Sam,
Nae law cud iver teame them;
Theer's blue nebb'd Watt, and ewe-chin'd Dick,
Weel wordy o' the gallows—
O happy is the country seyde
That's free frae sec leyke fellows!
November 27, 1803.
132
LANG SEYNE.
The last new shun our Betty gat,
They pinch her feet, the deil may care!
What, she mud ha'e them leady leyke,
Tho' she hes cworns, for evermair:
Nae black gairn stockins will she wear,
They mun be wheyte, and cotton feyne!
This meks me think of other teymes,
The happy days o' auld lang seyne!
They pinch her feet, the deil may care!
What, she mud ha'e them leady leyke,
Tho' she hes cworns, for evermair:
Nae black gairn stockins will she wear,
They mun be wheyte, and cotton feyne!
This meks me think of other teymes,
The happy days o' auld lang seyne!
Our dowter, tui, a palace
A guid reed clwoak she cannot wear;
And stays, she says, spoil leady's sheps—
Oh! it wad mek a parson swear!
Nit ae han's turn o' wark she'll dui,
She'll nowther milk or sarrat sweyne—
The country's puzzen'd roun wi' preyde,
For lasses work'd reet hard lang seyne.
A guid reed clwoak she cannot wear;
And stays, she says, spoil leady's sheps—
Oh! it wad mek a parson swear!
Nit ae han's turn o' wark she'll dui,
She'll nowther milk or sarrat sweyne—
The country's puzzen'd roun wi' preyde,
For lasses work'd reet hard lang seyne.
133
We've three guid rooms in our clay house,
Just big eneugh for sec as we;
They'd hev a parlour built wi' bricks,
I mud submit—what cud I dee?
The sattle neist was thrown aside,
It meeght ha'e sarra'd me and meyne;
My mudder thought it mens'd a house—
But we think shem o' auld lang seyne!
Just big eneugh for sec as we;
They'd hev a parlour built wi' bricks,
I mud submit—what cud I dee?
The sattle neist was thrown aside,
It meeght ha'e sarra'd me and meyne;
My mudder thought it mens'd a house—
But we think shem o' auld lang seyne!
We us'd to ga to bed at dark,
And ruse agean at four or five;
The mworn's the only teyme for wark,
If fwok are hilthy, and wou'd thrive:
Now we git up,—nay, God kens when!
And nuin's owre suin for us to deyne;
I's hungry or the pot's hawf boil'd,
And wish for teymes leyke auld lang seyne.
And ruse agean at four or five;
The mworn's the only teyme for wark,
If fwok are hilthy, and wou'd thrive:
Now we git up,—nay, God kens when!
And nuin's owre suin for us to deyne;
I's hungry or the pot's hawf boil'd,
And wish for teymes leyke auld lang seyne.
Deuce tek the fuil-invented tea!
For tweyce a-day we that mun hev;
Then taxes git sae monstrous hee,
The deil a plack yen now can seave!
There's been nae luck throughout the lan,
Sin fwok mud leyke their betters sheyne;
French fashions mek us parfet fuils;
We're caff and san to auld lang seyne!
For tweyce a-day we that mun hev;
Then taxes git sae monstrous hee,
The deil a plack yen now can seave!
There's been nae luck throughout the lan,
Sin fwok mud leyke their betters sheyne;
French fashions mek us parfet fuils;
We're caff and san to auld lang seyne!
January 5, 1807.
134
CANNY CUMMERLAN.
'Twas ae neet last week, wid our wark efter supper,
We went owre the geate cousin Isbel to see;
Theer were Sibby frae Curthet, and lal Betty Byers,
Deef Debby, forby Bella Bunton and me;
We'd scarce begun spinnin, when Sib a sang lilted,
She'd brong her frae Carel by their sarvant man;
'Twas aw about Cummerlan fwok and feyne pleaces,
And, if I can think on't, ye's hear how it ran.
We went owre the geate cousin Isbel to see;
Theer were Sibby frae Curthet, and lal Betty Byers,
Deef Debby, forby Bella Bunton and me;
We'd scarce begun spinnin, when Sib a sang lilted,
She'd brong her frae Carel by their sarvant man;
'Twas aw about Cummerlan fwok and feyne pleaces,
And, if I can think on't, ye's hear how it ran.
Yer buik-larn'd wise gentry, that's seen monie counties,
May preach and palaver, and brag as they will
O' mountains, lakes, valleys, woods, watters, and meadows,
But canny auld Cummerlan caps them aw still:
It's true, we've nae palaces sheynin amang us,
Nor marble tall towers to catch the weak eye;
But we've monie feyne cassels, where fit our brave fadders,
When Cummerlan cud onie county defy.
May preach and palaver, and brag as they will
O' mountains, lakes, valleys, woods, watters, and meadows,
But canny auld Cummerlan caps them aw still:
It's true, we've nae palaces sheynin amang us,
Nor marble tall towers to catch the weak eye;
135
When Cummerlan cud onie county defy.
Furst Graystock we'll nwotish, the seat o' girt Norfolk,
A neame still to freemen and Englishmen dear;
Ye Cummerlan fwok, may your sons and your gransons
Sec rare honest statesmen for iver revere:
Corruption's a sink that'll puzzen the country,
And lead us to slav'ry, to me it seems plain;
But he that hes courage to stem the black torrent,
True Britons sud pray for, agean and agean.
A neame still to freemen and Englishmen dear;
Ye Cummerlan fwok, may your sons and your gransons
Sec rare honest statesmen for iver revere:
Corruption's a sink that'll puzzen the country,
And lead us to slav'ry, to me it seems plain;
But he that hes courage to stem the black torrent,
True Britons sud pray for, agean and agean.
Whea that hes climb'd Skiddaw, hes seen sec a prospec,
Where fells frown owre fells, and in majesty vie?
Whea that hes seen Keswick, can count hawf its beauties,
May e'en try to count hawf the stars i' the sky:
Theer's Ullswater, Bassenthwaite, Wastwater, Derwent,
That thousands on thousands ha'e travell'd to view;
The langer they gaze, still the mair they may wonder,
And ay, as they wonder, may fin summet new.
Where fells frown owre fells, and in majesty vie?
Whea that hes seen Keswick, can count hawf its beauties,
May e'en try to count hawf the stars i' the sky:
Theer's Ullswater, Bassenthwaite, Wastwater, Derwent,
That thousands on thousands ha'e travell'd to view;
The langer they gaze, still the mair they may wonder,
And ay, as they wonder, may fin summet new.
136
We've Corby for rocks, caves, and walks sae delightfu',
That Eden a paradeyse loudly proclaims;
O that sec leyke pleaces hed ay sec leyke awners,
Then mud monie girt fwok be proud o' their neames!
We've Netherby tui, the grand pride o' the border,
And haws out o' number, nae county can bang;
Wi' rivers romantic as Tay, Tweed, or Yarrow,
And green woodbine bowers weel wordy a sang.
That Eden a paradeyse loudly proclaims;
O that sec leyke pleaces hed ay sec leyke awners,
Then mud monie girt fwok be proud o' their neames!
We've Netherby tui, the grand pride o' the border,
And haws out o' number, nae county can bang;
Wi' rivers romantic as Tay, Tweed, or Yarrow,
And green woodbine bowers weel wordy a sang.
We help yen anudder; we welcome the stranger;
Oursels and our country we'll iver defend;
We pay bits o' taxes as weel as we're yable,
And pray, leyke true Britons, the war hed an end:
Then, Cummerlan lads, and ye lish rwosy lasses,
If some caw ye clownish, ye need'nt think sheame;
Be merry and wise, enjoy innocent pleasures,
And ay seek for health and contentment at heame.
Oursels and our country we'll iver defend;
We pay bits o' taxes as weel as we're yable,
And pray, leyke true Britons, the war hed an end:
Then, Cummerlan lads, and ye lish rwosy lasses,
If some caw ye clownish, ye need'nt think sheame;
Be merry and wise, enjoy innocent pleasures,
And ay seek for health and contentment at heame.
August 12, 1804.
137
THE FELLOWS ROUN TORKIN.
We're aw feyne fellows roun Torkin;
We're aw guid fellows weel met;
We're aw wet fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us start;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Dicky lad, boddom the whart.
We're aw guid fellows weel met;
We're aw wet fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us start;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Dicky lad, boddom the whart.
I'll gi'e ye, says Dick, durty Dinah,
That's ay big wi' bairn fwok suppwose;
She sticks out her lip like a pentes,
To kep what may drop frae her nwose:
Leyke a hay-stack she hoists up ae shouder,
And scarts, for she's nit varra soun:
Wi' legs thick as mill-pwosts, and greasy,
The deevil cud nit ding her down!
That's ay big wi' bairn fwok suppwose;
She sticks out her lip like a pentes,
To kep what may drop frae her nwose:
Leyke a hay-stack she hoists up ae shouder,
And scarts, for she's nit varra soun:
Wi' legs thick as mill-pwosts, and greasy,
The deevil cud nit ding her down!
138
We're aw odd fellows roun Torkin;
We're aw larn'd fellows weel met;
We're aw rich fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Matthew lad, boddom the whart.
We're aw larn'd fellows weel met;
We're aw rich fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Matthew lad, boddom the whart.
I'll gi'e ye, says Matt, midden Marget,
That squints wi' the left-handed ee;
When at other fellows she's gleymin,
I's freeten'd she's luikin at me:
She smells far stranger than carrion,
Her cheeks are as dark as hung beef,
Her breasts are as flat as a back-buird;
'Mang sluts she's ay counted the chief!
That squints wi' the left-handed ee;
When at other fellows she's gleymin,
I's freeten'd she's luikin at me:
She smells far stranger than carrion,
Her cheeks are as dark as hung beef,
Her breasts are as flat as a back-buird;
'Mang sluts she's ay counted the chief!
We're aw wise fellows roun Torkin;
We're aw neyce fellows weel met;
We're aw sad fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Gwordy lad, boddom the whart.
We're aw neyce fellows weel met;
We're aw sad fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Gwordy lad, boddom the whart.
139
I'll gi'e ye, says Gworge, geapin Grizzy,
Wi' girt feet and marrowless legs;
Her reed neb wad set fire to brunstone;
Her een are as big as duck eggs:
She's shep'd leyke a sweyne i' the middle,
Her skin freckl'd aw leyke a gleid;
Her mouth's weyde as onie town yubbem,
We're freeten'd she'll swally her heed!
Wi' girt feet and marrowless legs;
Her reed neb wad set fire to brunstone;
Her een are as big as duck eggs:
She's shep'd leyke a sweyne i' the middle,
Her skin freckl'd aw leyke a gleid;
Her mouth's weyde as onie town yubbem,
We're freeten'd she'll swally her heed!
We're aw strang fellows roun Torkin!
We're aw lish fellows weel met;
We're aw top fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us start;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Wully lad, boddom the whart.
We're aw lish fellows weel met;
We're aw top fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us start;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Wully lad, boddom the whart.
I'll gi'e ye, says Wull, winkin Winny,
That measures exact three feet eight,
But wi' roun-shouder'd Ruth, or tall Tibby,
She'll scart, and she'll girn, and she'll feght;
She's cruik'd as an S—wid a hip out,
Her feet flat and braid, as big fluiks;
Her feace is as lang as a fiddle,
And aw spatter'd owre wi' reed plouks!
That measures exact three feet eight,
But wi' roun-shouder'd Ruth, or tall Tibby,
She'll scart, and she'll girn, and she'll feght;
She's cruik'd as an S—wid a hip out,
Her feet flat and braid, as big fluiks;
Her feace is as lang as a fiddle,
And aw spatter'd owre wi' reed plouks!
140
We're aw young fellows roun Torkin;
We're aw teeght fellows weel met;
We're aw brave fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a sweat:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Mwosy lad, boddom the whart.
We're aw teeght fellows weel met;
We're aw brave fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a sweat:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Mwosy lad, boddom the whart.
I'll gi'e ye, says Mwose, mantin Matty,
That lisps thro' her black rotten teeth:
You can't catch five words in ten minutes;
If gowlin, she'd flay yen to deeth:
Her feace like auld Nick's nutmig grater,
And yallow neck bitten wi' fleas;
She's troubl'd wi' win ay at meale teymes,
And belshes to give hersel ease!
That lisps thro' her black rotten teeth:
You can't catch five words in ten minutes;
If gowlin, she'd flay yen to deeth:
Her feace like auld Nick's nutmig grater,
And yallow neck bitten wi' fleas;
She's troubl'd wi' win ay at meale teymes,
And belshes to give hersel ease!
We're aw cute fellows roun Torkin;
We're aw sharp fellows weel met;
We're aw rare fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Nathan lad, boddom the whart.
We're aw sharp fellows weel met;
We're aw rare fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lasses about us,
'Till day's braid glare bids us part;
We'll sup till the saller be empty—
Come, Nathan lad, boddom the whart.
141
I'll gi'e ye, says Natt, noisy Nanny,
That chows shag 'bacco for fun;
She cocks her belly when walkin,
And ay luiks down to the grun:
She talks beath sleepin and wakin,
And crowks leyke a tead when she speaks;
On her nwose en the hair grows leyke stibble,
And gravey drops run owre her cheeks!
That chows shag 'bacco for fun;
She cocks her belly when walkin,
And ay luiks down to the grun:
She talks beath sleepin and wakin,
And crowks leyke a tead when she speaks;
On her nwose en the hair grows leyke stibble,
And gravey drops run owre her cheeks!
We're aw teugh fellows roun Torkin;
We're aw rash fellows weel met;
We're aw queer fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lang, leame, and lazy,
Deef, dum, black, brown, bleer-e'ed, and blin,
May they suin get weel weddet, and beddet,
If lads they can onie where fin!
We're aw rash fellows weel met;
We're aw queer fellows roun Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a swet:
Let's drink to the lang, leame, and lazy,
Deef, dum, black, brown, bleer-e'ed, and blin,
May they suin get weel weddet, and beddet,
If lads they can onie where fin!
142
BORROWDALE JWOHNNY.
I's Borrowdale Jwohnny, just cumt up to Lunnon,
Nay, gurn nit at me, for fear I laugh at you:
I've seen kneaves donn'd i' silks, and gud men gang in tatters,
The truth we sud tell, aud gi'e auld Nick his due.
Nan Watt pruiv'd wi' bairn, what, they caw'd me the fadder;
Thinks I, shekum-filthy! be off in a treyce!
Nine Carel bank nwotes mudder slipt i' my pocket,
And fadder neist ga'e me reet holesome adveyce.
Nay, gurn nit at me, for fear I laugh at you:
I've seen kneaves donn'd i' silks, and gud men gang in tatters,
The truth we sud tell, aud gi'e auld Nick his due.
Nan Watt pruiv'd wi' bairn, what, they caw'd me the fadder;
Thinks I, shekum-filthy! be off in a treyce!
Nine Carel bank nwotes mudder slipt i' my pocket,
And fadder neist ga'e me reet holesome adveyce.
Says he, “keep frae t' lasses! and ne'er luik ahint thee.”
We're deep as the best o' them, fadder, says I.
They pack'd up ae sark, Sunday weascwoat, twee neckcloths,
Wot bannock, cauld dumplin, and top stannin pye:
I mounted black filly, bad God bliss the auld fwok,
Cries fadder, “Tou's larn'd, Jwohn, and hes nought to fear;
Caw and see cousin Jacep! he's got aw the money:
He'll git thee some guverment pleace,—to be seer!”
We're deep as the best o' them, fadder, says I.
They pack'd up ae sark, Sunday weascwoat, twee neckcloths,
Wot bannock, cauld dumplin, and top stannin pye:
I mounted black filly, bad God bliss the auld fwok,
Cries fadder, “Tou's larn'd, Jwohn, and hes nought to fear;
143
He'll git thee some guverment pleace,—to be seer!”
I stopp'd on a fell, tuik a lang luik at Skiddaw,
And neist at the schuil-house amang the esh trees;
Last thing, saw the smuik rising up frae our chimley,
And fan aw quite queer, wid a heart ill at ease:
But summet widin me, cried, Pou up thy spirits!
Theer's luck, says auld Lizzy, in feacin the sun;
Tou's young, lish and cliver, may wed a feyne leady,
And cum heame a nabob—aye, sure as a gun!
And neist at the schuil-house amang the esh trees;
Last thing, saw the smuik rising up frae our chimley,
And fan aw quite queer, wid a heart ill at ease:
But summet widin me, cried, Pou up thy spirits!
Theer's luck, says auld Lizzy, in feacin the sun;
Tou's young, lish and cliver, may wed a feyne leady,
And cum heame a nabob—aye, sure as a gun!
Knowin manners, what, I doff'd my hat to aw strangers,
Wid a spur on ae heel, a yek siplin in han,
It tuik me nine days and six hours comin up-bank,
At the Whorns—aye, 'twas Highget, a chap bad me stan;
Says he, “How's all friens i' the North, honest Johnny?”
Odswunters! I says, what, ye divent ken me!—
I paid twee wheyte shillins, and fain was to see him,
Nit thinkin on't rwoad onie 'quaintance to see.
Wid a spur on ae heel, a yek siplin in han,
It tuik me nine days and six hours comin up-bank,
At the Whorns—aye, 'twas Highget, a chap bad me stan;
Says he, “How's all friens i' the North, honest Johnny?”
Odswunters! I says, what, ye divent ken me!—
I paid twee wheyte shillins, and fain was to see him,
Nit thinkin on't rwoad onie 'quaintance to see.
Neist thing, what big kurks, gilded cwoaches, hee houses,
And fwok runnin thro' other, leyke Carel Fair;
I ax'd a smart chap where to fin cousin Jacep,
Says he, “Clown, go look!” Friend, says I, tell me where?
Fadder' letter to Jacep hed got nae subscription,
Sae, when I was glowrin and siz'lin about,
A wheyte-feac'd young lass aw dess'd out leyke a leady,
Cried, “Pray, Sir, step in!” but I wish I'd kept out.
And fwok runnin thro' other, leyke Carel Fair;
144
Says he, “Clown, go look!” Friend, says I, tell me where?
Fadder' letter to Jacep hed got nae subscription,
Sae, when I was glowrin and siz'lin about,
A wheyte-feac'd young lass aw dess'd out leyke a leady,
Cried, “Pray, Sir, step in!” but I wish I'd kept out.
She pou'd at a bell, leyke our kurk-bell it soundet,
In com sarvant lass, and she worder'd some weyne;
Says I, I's nit dry, sae, pray, Madam, excuse me!
Nay, what she insisted I sud stop and deyne.
She meade varra free,—'twas a shem and a byzen!
I thought her in luive wi' my parson, for sure;
And promis'd to caw agean:—as for black filly,
(Wad onie believ't!) she was stown frae the duir!
In com sarvant lass, and she worder'd some weyne;
Says I, I's nit dry, sae, pray, Madam, excuse me!
Nay, what she insisted I sud stop and deyne.
She meade varra free,—'twas a shem and a byzen!
I thought her in luive wi' my parson, for sure;
And promis'd to caw agean:—as for black filly,
(Wad onie believ't!) she was stown frae the duir!
Od dang't! War than that:—when I greap'd my breek-pocket,
I fan fadder watch, and the nwotes were aw gean;
It was neet, and I luik'd lang and sair for kent feaces,
But Borrowdale fwok I cud niver see neane.
I sleept on the flags, just abint the kurk corner,
A chap wid a girt stick and lantern com by,
He caw'd me peace-breaker—says I, Thou's a lear—
In a pleace leyke a saller they fworc'd me to lie.
I fan fadder watch, and the nwotes were aw gean;
It was neet, and I luik'd lang and sair for kent feaces,
But Borrowdale fwok I cud niver see neane.
I sleept on the flags, just abint the kurk corner,
A chap wid a girt stick and lantern com by,
145
In a pleace leyke a saller they fworc'd me to lie.
Nae caff bed or blankets for silly pilgarlic;
Deil a wink cud I sleep, nay nor yet see a steyme;
Neist day I was ta'en to the Narration Offish,
When a man in a wig said, I'd duin a sad creyme.
Then ane ax'd my neame, and he pat on his speckets,
Says I, Jwhonny Cruckdeyke—I's Borrowdale bworn.
Whea think ye it pruiv'd, but my awn cousin Jacep,
He seav'd me fraet gallows, aye that varra mworn.
Deil a wink cud I sleep, nay nor yet see a steyme;
Neist day I was ta'en to the Narration Offish,
When a man in a wig said, I'd duin a sad creyme.
Then ane ax'd my neame, and he pat on his speckets,
Says I, Jwhonny Cruckdeyke—I's Borrowdale bworn.
Whea think ye it pruiv'd, but my awn cousin Jacep,
He seav'd me fraet gallows, aye that varra mworn.
He spak to my Lword, some hard words, quite out-landish,
Then caw'd forhiscwoach, and away weruid heame;
He ax'd varra kind efter fadder and mudder,
I said they were bravely, and neist saw his deame:
She's aw puff and pouder; as for cousin Jacep,
He's got owre much gear to tek nwotish o' me;
But if onie amang ye sud want a lish sarvent,
Just bid me a weage—I'll upod ye, we's 'gree.
Then caw'd forhiscwoach, and away weruid heame;
He ax'd varra kind efter fadder and mudder,
I said they were bravely, and neist saw his deame:
She's aw puff and pouder; as for cousin Jacep,
He's got owre much gear to tek nwotish o' me;
But if onie amang ye sud want a lish sarvent,
Just bid me a weage—I'll upod ye, we's 'gree.
January 4, 1807.
146
THE CODBECK WEDDIN.
True is my song, tho' lowly be the strain.
They sing of a weddin at Worton,
Where aw was feght, fratchin, and fun;
Feegh! see a yen we've hed at Codbeck,
As niver was under the sun:
The breydegruim was weaver Joe Bewley,
He com frae about Lowthet Green;
The breyde Jwohnny Dalton' lish dowter,
And Betty was weel to be seen.
Where aw was feght, fratchin, and fun;
Feegh! see a yen we've hed at Codbeck,
As niver was under the sun:
The breydegruim was weaver Joe Bewley,
He com frae about Lowthet Green;
The breyde Jwohnny Dalton' lish dowter,
And Betty was weel to be seen.
Sec patchin, and weshin, and bleachin,
And starchin, and darnin auld duds;
Some lasses thought lang to the weddin;
Unax'd, others sat i' the suds:
Theer were tweescwore and seebem inveyted,
God speed tem 'gean Cursenmas-day;
“Dobson' lads, tui, what they mun cum hidder!”
I think they were better away!
And starchin, and darnin auld duds;
Some lasses thought lang to the weddin;
Unax'd, others sat i' the suds:
Theer were tweescwore and seebem inveyted,
God speed tem 'gean Cursenmas-day;
“Dobson' lads, tui, what they mun cum hidder!”
I think they were better away!
147
Furst thing, Oggle Willy, the fiddler,
Caw'd in wi' auld Jonathan Strang;
Neist stiff and stout, lang, leame and lazy,
Frae aw parts com in wi' a bang:
Frae Brocklebank, Fuilduirs, and Newlands,
Frae Hesket, Burk-heads, and the Height,
Frae Warnell, Starnmire, Nether Welton,
And awt' way frae Eytonfield-street.
Caw'd in wi' auld Jonathan Strang;
Neist stiff and stout, lang, leame and lazy,
Frae aw parts com in wi' a bang:
Frae Brocklebank, Fuilduirs, and Newlands,
Frae Hesket, Burk-heads, and the Height,
Frae Warnell, Starnmire, Nether Welton,
And awt' way frae Eytonfield-street.
Furst auld Jwhonny Dawton we'll nwotish,
And Mary, his canny douse deame;
Son Wully, and Mally, his sister;
Goffet' weyfe, Muckle Nanny by neame;
Wully Sinclair, Smith Leytle, Jwohn Aitchin,
Tom Ridley, Joe Sim, Peter Weir,
Gworge Goffet, Jwohn Bell, Miller Dyer,
Joe Head, and Ned Bulman were theer.
And Mary, his canny douse deame;
Son Wully, and Mally, his sister;
Goffet' weyfe, Muckle Nanny by neame;
Wully Sinclair, Smith Leytle, Jwohn Aitchin,
Tom Ridley, Joe Sim, Peter Weir,
Gworge Goffet, Jwohn Bell, Miller Dyer,
Joe Head, and Ned Bulman were theer.
We'd hay-cruiks, and hen-tails, and hanniels,
And nattlers that fuddle for nought;
Wi' sceape-greaces, skeybels, and scruffins,
And maffs better fed far than taught;
We'd lads that wad eat for a weager,
Or feght, aye, till bluid to the knees;
Fell-seyders, and Sowerby riff-raff,
That deil a bum-bealie dar seize.
And nattlers that fuddle for nought;
Wi' sceape-greaces, skeybels, and scruffins,
And maffs better fed far than taught;
We'd lads that wad eat for a weager,
Or feght, aye, till bluid to the knees;
Fell-seyders, and Sowerby riff-raff,
That deil a bum-bealie dar seize.
148
The breyde hung her head, and luik'd sheepish,
The breydegruim as wheyte as a clout;
The bairns aw gleym'd thro' the kurk windows,
The parson was varra devout:
The ring was lost out of her pocket,
The breyde meade a bonny te-dee;
Cries Goffet' weyfe, “Meyne's meade o' pinchback,
And, la ye! it fits till a tee!”
The breydegruim as wheyte as a clout;
The bairns aw gleym'd thro' the kurk windows,
The parson was varra devout:
The ring was lost out of her pocket,
The breyde meade a bonny te-dee;
Cries Goffet' weyfe, “Meyne's meade o' pinchback,
And, la ye! it fits till a tee!”
Now buckl'd, wi' fiddlers afwore them,
They gev Michael Crosby a caw;
Up spak canny Bewley the breydegruim,
“Get slocken'd, lads! fadder pays aw.”
We drank till aw seem'd blue about us,
We're ay murry deevils, tho' peer;
Michael' weyfe says, “Widout onie leein,
A duck mud ha'e swam on the fleer.”
They gev Michael Crosby a caw;
Up spak canny Bewley the breydegruim,
“Get slocken'd, lads! fadder pays aw.”
We drank till aw seem'd blue about us,
We're ay murry deevils, tho' peer;
Michael' weyfe says, “Widout onie leein,
A duck mud ha'e swam on the fleer.”
Now, aw 'bacco'd owre, and hawf-drucken,
The men fwok wad needs kiss the breyde;
Joe Head, that's ay reckon'd best spwokesman,
Whop'd “guid wad the couple beteyde:”
Says Michael, “I's reet glad to see you,
Suppwosin I gat ne'er a plack.”
Cries t' weyfe, “That'll nowther pay brewer,
Nor git bits o' sarks to yen's back.”
The men fwok wad needs kiss the breyde;
Joe Head, that's ay reckon'd best spwokesman,
Whop'd “guid wad the couple beteyde:”
Says Michael, “I's reet glad to see you,
Suppwosin I gat ne'er a plack.”
Cries t' weyfe, “That'll nowther pay brewer,
Nor git bits o' sarks to yen's back.”
149
The breyde wad dance ‘Coddle me, Cuddy;’
A threesome then caper'd Scotch Reels;
Peter Weir cleek'd up auld Mary Dalton,
Leyke a cock roun a hen neist he steals;
Jwohn Bell yelp'd out ‘Sowerby Lasses;’
Young Jwosep, a lang Country dance,
He'd got his new pumps Smithson meade him,
And fain wad shew how he cud prance.
A threesome then caper'd Scotch Reels;
Peter Weir cleek'd up auld Mary Dalton,
Leyke a cock roun a hen neist he steals;
Jwohn Bell yelp'd out ‘Sowerby Lasses;’
Young Jwosep, a lang Country dance,
He'd got his new pumps Smithson meade him,
And fain wad shew how he cud prance.
To march roun the town, and keep swober,
The women fwok thought was but reet;
“Be wise, dui, for yence!” says Jwohn Dyer;
The breydegruim mud reyde shouder heet:
The youngermak lurried ahint them,
Till efter them Bell meade a brek;
Tom Ridley was aw baiz'd wi' drinkin,
And plung'd off the steps i' the beck.
The women fwok thought was but reet;
“Be wise, dui, for yence!” says Jwohn Dyer;
The breydegruim mud reyde shouder heet:
The youngermak lurried ahint them,
Till efter them Bell meade a brek;
Tom Ridley was aw baiz'd wi' drinkin,
And plung'd off the steps i' the beck.
To Hudless's now off they sizell'd,
And theer gat far mair than eneugh;
Miller Hodgson suin brunt the punch ladle,
And full'd ev'ry glass wid his leuf;
He thought he was tekin his mouter,
And deil a bit conscience hes he;
They preym'd him wi' stiff punch and jollup,
'Till Sally Scott thought he wad dec.
And theer gat far mair than eneugh;
Miller Hodgson suin brunt the punch ladle,
And full'd ev'ry glass wid his leuf;
He thought he was tekin his mouter,
And deil a bit conscience hes he;
They preym'd him wi' stiff punch and jollup,
'Till Sally Scott thought he wad dec.
150
Joe Sim rwoar'd out, “Bin, we've duin wonders!
Our Mally's turn'd howe i' the weame!”
Wi' three strings atween them, the fiddlers
Strack up, and they reel'd towerts heame;
Meyner Leytle wad now hoist a standert,
Peer man! he cud nit daddle far,
But stuck in a pant buin the middle,
And yen tuik him heame in a car.
Our Mally's turn'd howe i' the weame!”
Wi' three strings atween them, the fiddlers
Strack up, and they reel'd towerts heame;
Meyner Leytle wad now hoist a standert,
Peer man! he cud nit daddle far,
But stuck in a pant buin the middle,
And yen tuik him heame in a car.
For dinner, we'd stew'd geuse, and haggish,
Cow'd-leady, and het bacon pye,
Boil'd fluiks, tatey-hash, beastin puddin,
Saut salmon, and cabbish; forby
Pork, pancakes, black puddins, sheep trotters,
And custert, and mustert, and veal,
Grey-pez keale, and lang apple dumplins:—
I wish ev'ry yen far'd as weel!
Cow'd-leady, and het bacon pye,
Boil'd fluiks, tatey-hash, beastin puddin,
Saut salmon, and cabbish; forby
Pork, pancakes, black puddins, sheep trotters,
And custert, and mustert, and veal,
Grey-pez keale, and lang apple dumplins:—
I wish ev'ry yen far'd as weel!
The breyde, geavin aw roun about her,
Cries, “Wuns! we forgat butter sops!”
The breydegruim fan nae teyme for talkin,
But wi' stannin pye greas'd his chops.
We'd loppar'd milk, skim'd milk, and kurn'd milk,
Well watter, smaw beer, aw at yence;
“Shaff! bring yell in piggens!” rwoars Dalton,
“Deil tek them e'er cares for expence!”
Cries, “Wuns! we forgat butter sops!”
The breydegruim fan nae teyme for talkin,
But wi' stannin pye greas'd his chops.
We'd loppar'd milk, skim'd milk, and kurn'd milk,
Well watter, smaw beer, aw at yence;
“Shaff! bring yell in piggens!” rwoars Dalton,
“Deil tek them e'er cares for expence!”
151
Now aw cut and cleek'd frae their neybors,
'Twas even down thump, pull and haul;
Joe Head gat a geuse aw together,
And off he crap into the faul:
Muckle Nanny cried, “Shem o' sec weastry!”
The ladle she brak owre ILL Bell;
Tom Dalton sat thrang in a corner,
And eat nar the weight of his sel.
'Twas even down thump, pull and haul;
Joe Head gat a geuse aw together,
And off he crap into the faul:
Muckle Nanny cried, “Shem o' sec weastry!”
The ladle she brak owre ILL Bell;
Tom Dalton sat thrang in a corner,
And eat nar the weight of his sel.
A hillibuloo was now started,
'Twas “Rannigal! whee cares for tee?”
“Stop, Tommy! whee's weyfe was i' th' carras!
Tou'd ne'er been a man, but for me!”
“Od dang thee!”—“To jail I cud sen thee,
Peer scraffles!”—“Thy lan grows nae gurse.”
“Ne'er ak! it's my awn, and it's paid for—
But whee was't stuil auld Tim Jwohn' purse?”
'Twas “Rannigal! whee cares for tee?”
“Stop, Tommy! whee's weyfe was i' th' carras!
Tou'd ne'er been a man, but for me!”
“Od dang thee!”—“To jail I cud sen thee,
Peer scraffles!”—“Thy lan grows nae gurse.”
“Ne'er ak! it's my awn, and it's paid for—
But whee was't stuil auld Tim Jwohn' purse?”
Ned Bulman wad feght wi' Gworge Goffet,
Peer Gwordy he nobbet stript thin,
And luik'd leyke a cock out o' fedder,
But suin gat a weel-bleaken'd skin;
Neist, Sanderson fratch'd wid a hay-stack,
And Deavison fught wi' the whins:
Smith Leytle fell out wi' the cobbles,
And peel'd aw the bark of his shins.
Peer Gwordy he nobbet stript thin,
And luik'd leyke a cock out o' fedder,
But suin gat a weel-bleaken'd skin;
Neist, Sanderson fratch'd wid a hay-stack,
And Deavison fught wi' the whins:
Smith Leytle fell out wi' the cobbles,
And peel'd aw the bark of his shins.
152
The hay-bay was now somewhat seyded,
And young fwok the music men miss'd,
They'd drucken leyke fiddlers in common,
And fawn owre ayont an aul kist;
Some mair fwok that neet were a-missin,
Than Wully, and Jonathan Strang—
But decency whispers, “What matter!
Tou munnet put them in the sang!”
And young fwok the music men miss'd,
They'd drucken leyke fiddlers in common,
And fawn owre ayont an aul kist;
Some mair fwok that neet were a-missin,
Than Wully, and Jonathan Strang—
But decency whispers, “What matter!
Tou munnet put them in the sang!”
Auld Dalton thought he was at Carel;
Says he, “Jacob! see what's to pay!
Come, wosler! heaste—get out the horses,
We'll e'en teake the rwoad, and away!”
He cowp'd off his stuil, leyke a san bag,
Tom Ridley beel'd out, “Deil may care!”
For a whart o' het yell, and a stick in't,
Dick Simson 'll tell ye far mair.
Says he, “Jacob! see what's to pay!
Come, wosler! heaste—get out the horses,
We'll e'en teake the rwoad, and away!”
He cowp'd off his stuil, leyke a san bag,
Tom Ridley beel'd out, “Deil may care!”
For a whart o' het yell, and a stick in't,
Dick Simson 'll tell ye far mair.
Come, bumper the Cummerlan lasses,
Their marrows can seldom be seen;
And he that won't feght to defend them,
I wish he may ne'er want black een!
May our murry-neets, clay-daubins, races,
And weddins, ay finish wi' glee;
And when ought's amang us worth nwotish,
Lang may I be present to see!
Their marrows can seldom be seen;
And he that won't feght to defend them,
I wish he may ne'er want black een!
May our murry-neets, clay-daubins, races,
And weddins, ay finish wi' glee;
And when ought's amang us worth nwotish,
Lang may I be present to see!
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THE ILL-GIEN WEYFE, AN OWRE TRUE PICTURE O' MONIE.
A toilsome leyfe, for thurty years,
I patiently hev spent,
As onie yen o' onie rank,
I this weyde warl e'er kent;
For when at heame, or when away,
Nae peace ther is for me;
I's pestert wid an ill-gien weyfe,
That niver lets me be:
Ay teazin, ne'er ceasin,
Leyke an angry sea;
Nae kurk-bell e'er hed sec a tongue,
And oft it deefens me!
I patiently hev spent,
As onie yen o' onie rank,
I this weyde warl e'er kent;
For when at heame, or when away,
Nae peace ther is for me;
I's pestert wid an ill-gien weyfe,
That niver lets me be:
Ay teazin, ne'er ceasin,
Leyke an angry sea;
Nae kurk-bell e'er hed sec a tongue,
And oft it deefens me!
When furst I saw her mealy feace,
'Twas painted up sae feyne,
I thowt her e'en fit for a queen—
She wan this heart o' meyne;
But sin' that hour, that sworry hour,
We ne'er cud yence agree;
And oft I curse the luckless day
I pawn'd my liberty:
Care an sorrow, then to morrow
Ay the seame mun be;
Oh! had I coffin'd been, that day
I lost my liberty!
'Twas painted up sae feyne,
I thowt her e'en fit for a queen—
She wan this heart o' meyne;
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We ne'er cud yence agree;
And oft I curse the luckless day
I pawn'd my liberty:
Care an sorrow, then to morrow
Ay the seame mun be;
Oh! had I coffin'd been, that day
I lost my liberty!
When young, I wish'd for weyfe and weeans,
But now the thowt I scworn;
Thank Heav'n, a bairn o' owther sex
To me she ne'er has bworn!
Leyke fuils we wish our youth away,
When happy we mud be—
Aw ye whee're pleagued wi' scauldin weyves,
I wish ye suin set free!
Grin, grinnin!—din, dinnin!
Toil and misery!
Better feed the kurk-yard wurms,
Than leeve sec slaves as we!
But now the thowt I scworn;
Thank Heav'n, a bairn o' owther sex
To me she ne'er has bworn!
Leyke fuils we wish our youth away,
When happy we mud be—
Aw ye whee're pleagued wi' scauldin weyves,
I wish ye suin set free!
Grin, grinnin!—din, dinnin!
Toil and misery!
Better feed the kurk-yard wurms,
Than leeve sec slaves as we!
I's past aw wark, it's hard to want,
An auld and peer am I;
But happiness i' this veyle warl,
Nae gear cud iver buy:
O wer I on some owre sea land,
Nae women nar to see,
At preyde an grander I wad smeyle,
An thanks to Heav'n wad gie:
O woman! foe to man!
A blessin thou sud be;
But wae to him that wears thy chain,
Peer wretch unblest leyke me!
An auld and peer am I;
But happiness i' this veyle warl,
Nae gear cud iver buy:
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Nae women nar to see,
At preyde an grander I wad smeyle,
An thanks to Heav'n wad gie:
O woman! foe to man!
A blessin thou sud be;
But wae to him that wears thy chain,
Peer wretch unblest leyke me!
When wintry blasts blow loud an keen,
I's fain to slink frae heame;
An rader feace the angry storm,
Than hur I hate to neame:
Wheyle she wi' sland'rous cronies met,
Sit's hatchin monie a lee;
The seet wad flay auld Nick away,
Or vex a saint to see,
Puff, puffin!—snuff, snuffin!
Ne'er frae mischief free;
How waak is lwordly boastin man,
On sec to cast an ee!
I's fain to slink frae heame;
An rader feace the angry storm,
Than hur I hate to neame:
Wheyle she wi' sland'rous cronies met,
Sit's hatchin monie a lee;
The seet wad flay auld Nick away,
Or vex a saint to see,
Puff, puffin!—snuff, snuffin!
Ne'er frae mischief free;
How waak is lwordly boastin man,
On sec to cast an ee!
If to a neybor's house I steal,
To crack a wheyle at neet,
She hurries ti' me leyke a deil,
An flays the fwok to see't;
Whate'er I dui, whate'er I say,
Wi' hur a faut mun be;
I freet an freet baith neet an day,
But seldom clwose an ee:
Wake, wakin!—shak, shakin!
Then she teks the gee;
He's happy that leevs aw his leane,
Compar d wi' chaps leyke me.
To crack a wheyle at neet,
She hurries ti' me leyke a deil,
An flays the fwok to see't;
156
Wi' hur a faut mun be;
I freet an freet baith neet an day,
But seldom clwose an ee:
Wake, wakin!—shak, shakin!
Then she teks the gee;
He's happy that leevs aw his leane,
Compar d wi' chaps leyke me.
To stop the niver-ceasin storm,
I brong her cousin here;
She aw but brak the wee thing's heart,
An cost her monie a tear:
If chance a frien pops in his heed,
Off to the duir she'll flee;
She snarls leyke onie angry cat,
An sair I's vex'd to see!
Now fratchin, neist scratchin,
Oft wi' bleaken'd ee,
I pray auld Nick hed sec a deame,
I trow he vex'd wad be!
I brong her cousin here;
She aw but brak the wee thing's heart,
An cost her monie a tear:
If chance a frien pops in his heed,
Off to the duir she'll flee;
She snarls leyke onie angry cat,
An sair I's vex'd to see!
Now fratchin, neist scratchin,
Oft wi' bleaken'd ee,
I pray auld Nick hed sec a deame,
I trow he vex'd wad be!
How blithe man meets the keenest ills,
I' this shwort voyage o' leyfe,
And thinks nae palace leyke his heame,
Blest wid a keyndly weyfe:
But sure the greatest curse hard fate
To onie man can gie,
Is sec a filthy slut as meyne,
That ne'er yence comforts me;
Lads jeerin, lasses sneerin,
Cuckold some caw me;
I scrat an auld grey achin pow,
But darn't say they lee.
I' this shwort voyage o' leyfe,
And thinks nae palace leyke his heame,
Blest wid a keyndly weyfe:
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To onie man can gie,
Is sec a filthy slut as meyne,
That ne'er yence comforts me;
Lads jeerin, lasses sneerin,
Cuckold some caw me;
I scrat an auld grey achin pow,
But darn't say they lee.
They're happy that hev teydey weyves,
To keep peer bodies clean;
But meyne's a freetfu' lump o' filth,
Her marra ne'er was seen:
Ilk dud she wears upon her back,
Is poison to the ee;
Her smock's leyke auld Nick's nuttin bag,
The deil a word I lee:
Dour an' durty—house aw clarty!
See her set at tea,
Her feace defies baith seape an san,
To mek't just fit to see!
To keep peer bodies clean;
But meyne's a freetfu' lump o' filth,
Her marra ne'er was seen:
Ilk dud she wears upon her back,
Is poison to the ee;
Her smock's leyke auld Nick's nuttin bag,
The deil a word I lee:
Dour an' durty—house aw clarty!
See her set at tea,
Her feace defies baith seape an san,
To mek't just fit to see!
A beyte o' meat I munnet eat,
Seave what I cuik mysel;
Ae patch or clout she'll nit stick on,
Sae heame's just leyke a hell:
By day or neet, if out o' seet.
Seafe frae this canker'd she,
I pray and pray, wi' aw my heart,
Deeth, suin tek hur or me!
Fleyte, fleytin!—feght, feghtin!
How her luik I dree!
Come tyrant rid me o' this curse,
Dui tek her! I'll thank thee!
Seave what I cuik mysel;
Ae patch or clout she'll nit stick on,
Sae heame's just leyke a hell:
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Seafe frae this canker'd she,
I pray and pray, wi' aw my heart,
Deeth, suin tek hur or me!
Fleyte, fleytin!—feght, feghtin!
How her luik I dree!
Come tyrant rid me o' this curse,
Dui tek her! I'll thank thee!
159
ROB LOWRIE.
I've seen thirty Summers strow flow'rs i' the glen,
But annuder blithe Summer I'll ne'er see again!
I've hed monie wooers, frae clown to the beau,
But I've lost Rob Lowrie, the flow'r o' them aw!
But annuder blithe Summer I'll ne'er see again!
I've hed monie wooers, frae clown to the beau,
But I've lost Rob Lowrie, the flow'r o' them aw!
The furst was Joe Coupland, when I was fifteen;
The neist was Wull Wawby, and then com Gib Green;
An' Jwohn o' Kurkan'rews, and Sly Dicky Slee,
But bonny Rob Lowrie was dearest to me!
The neist was Wull Wawby, and then com Gib Green;
An' Jwohn o' Kurkan'rews, and Sly Dicky Slee,
But bonny Rob Lowrie was dearest to me!
'Twas last Durdar reaces, he rid the black cowt,
And widout onie whuppin, he bang't tem leyke owt;
And then when they russel'd, the lads how he felt!
And off heame we canter't, wi' breydle and belt.
And widout onie whuppin, he bang't tem leyke owt;
And then when they russel'd, the lads how he felt!
And off heame we canter't, wi' breydle and belt.
At neets when we daunder't alang Cauda seyde,
He'd promise, and promise to mek me his breyde;
An'then our twee neames he wad carve on the steyle—
Lord help the peer lasses men seek to beguile!
He'd promise, and promise to mek me his breyde;
An'then our twee neames he wad carve on the steyle—
Lord help the peer lasses men seek to beguile!
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I luik owre the pasture—nae Rob's to be seen!
Then sit down, heart-broken, an' tears blin my een:
My mudder she fratches, frae mwornin till neet,
And lasses keep flyrin', wheniver we meet.
Then sit down, heart-broken, an' tears blin my een:
My mudder she fratches, frae mwornin till neet,
And lasses keep flyrin', wheniver we meet.
When singin', Rob Lowrie was ay i' my sang;
Now thoughts o' Rob Lowrie hae turn'd me quite wrang;
He's weel-shep'd, an' lusty, he stans six feet twee;
Theer's health in his fair feace, and luive in his ee!
Now thoughts o' Rob Lowrie hae turn'd me quite wrang;
He's weel-shep'd, an' lusty, he stans six feet twee;
Theer's health in his fair feace, and luive in his ee!
But whee's this comes whuslin', sae sweet, owre the hill?
He brings me a pwosey—It's e'en Gwordie Gill!
He's lish, an' he's canny, wi' reed curly hair—
The Deil tek Rob Lowrie! I'll heed him nae mair!
He brings me a pwosey—It's e'en Gwordie Gill!
He's lish, an' he's canny, wi' reed curly hair—
The Deil tek Rob Lowrie! I'll heed him nae mair!
161
THE LASSES OF CAREL.
The lasses o' Carel are weel shep'd, and bonny,
But he that wad win yen mun brag of his gear;
You may follow, and follow, till heart-sick and weary,
To get them needs siller, and feyne claes to wear:
They'll catch at a reed cwoat, leyke as monie mackrel,
And jump at a fop, or e'en lissen a fuil;
Just brag of an uncle, that's got heaps of money,
And deil a bit ods, if you've ne'er been at schuil!
But he that wad win yen mun brag of his gear;
You may follow, and follow, till heart-sick and weary,
To get them needs siller, and feyne claes to wear:
They'll catch at a reed cwoat, leyke as monie mackrel,
And jump at a fop, or e'en lissen a fuil;
Just brag of an uncle, that's got heaps of money,
And deil a bit ods, if you've ne'er been at schuil!
I yence follow'd Marget, the twoast amang aw maks,
And Peg hed a red cheek, and bonny dark ee;
But suin as she fan I depended on labour,
She snurl'd up her neb, and nae mair luik'd at me:
This meks my words gud, nobbet brag o' yer uncle,
And get a peer hawf-wit to trumpet yer praise,
You may catch whee you will, they'll caress ye, and bless ye—
It's money, nit merit, they seek now-a-days!
And Peg hed a red cheek, and bonny dark ee;
But suin as she fan I depended on labour,
She snurl'd up her neb, and nae mair luik'd at me:
This meks my words gud, nobbet brag o' yer uncle,
And get a peer hawf-wit to trumpet yer praise,
You may catch whee you will, they'll caress ye, and bless ye—
It's money, nit merit, they seek now-a-days!
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I neist follow'd Nelly, and thowt her an angel,
And she thowt me aw that a mortal sud be;
A rich whupper-snapper just stept in atween us,
Nae words efter that pass'd atween Nell and me:
This meks my words gud, nobbet brag o' yer uncle,
They'll feght, ay leyke mad cats, to win yer sly smeyle;
And watch ye, to catch ye, now gazin' and praisin',
They're angels to luik at, wi' hearts full o' geyle!
And she thowt me aw that a mortal sud be;
A rich whupper-snapper just stept in atween us,
Nae words efter that pass'd atween Nell and me:
This meks my words gud, nobbet brag o' yer uncle,
They'll feght, ay leyke mad cats, to win yer sly smeyle;
And watch ye, to catch ye, now gazin' and praisin',
They're angels to luik at, wi' hearts full o' geyle!
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THE DAYS THAT ARE GEANE.
Now, weyfe, sin the day-leet hes left us,
And drizzly sleet's 'ginnin to fa',
Let's creep owre the heartsome turf ingle,
And laugh the weyld winter awa';
Contented, thou spins the lang e'enin',
And I wi' my peype envy neane;
Then why shou'd we peyne about riches—
Let's think o' the days that are geane.
And drizzly sleet's 'ginnin to fa',
Let's creep owre the heartsome turf ingle,
And laugh the weyld winter awa';
Contented, thou spins the lang e'enin',
And I wi' my peype envy neane;
Then why shou'd we peyne about riches—
Let's think o' the days that are geane.
This crazy auld chair, when I think on't,
Nae wonder a tear blins my ee;
'Twas e'en my puir fadders, God rest him!
He valued this warl nit a flea:
His maxim was, be guid, and dui guid;
To mortal he wadna gie pain—
My chair's mair than gilded throne to me,
It prop'd the leel fellow that's gane.
Nae wonder a tear blins my ee;
'Twas e'en my puir fadders, God rest him!
He valued this warl nit a flea:
His maxim was, be guid, and dui guid;
To mortal he wadna gie pain—
My chair's mair than gilded throne to me,
It prop'd the leel fellow that's gane.
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Thy wheel that's gien cleedin' to monie,
O' mortals ay puts me i' meynd;
The spoke now at top, is suin lowest,
And thus it oft fares wi' mankeynd:
The clock, clickin', tells how Teyme passes,
A moment he'll tarry for neane;
Contented we'll welcome to-morrow,
Ay thankfu' for days that are geane.
O' mortals ay puts me i' meynd;
The spoke now at top, is suin lowest,
And thus it oft fares wi' mankeynd:
The clock, clickin', tells how Teyme passes,
A moment he'll tarry for neane;
Contented we'll welcome to-morrow,
Ay thankfu' for days that are geane.
Now fifty shwort years hae flown owre us,
Sin furst we fell in at the fair;
I've monie a teyme thowt, wi' new pleasure,
Nae weyfe cud wi' Jenny compare:
Tho' thy rwose has gien way to the wrinkle,
At changes we munna complain;
They're rich, whea in age are leet-hearted,
And mourn nit for days that are geane.
Sin furst we fell in at the fair;
I've monie a teyme thowt, wi' new pleasure,
Nae weyfe cud wi' Jenny compare:
Tho' thy rwose has gien way to the wrinkle,
At changes we munna complain;
They're rich, whea in age are leet-hearted,
And mourn nit for days that are geane.
Our bairns are heale, hearty, and honest,
And willinly toil thro' the year;
Our duty we ay hae duin ti' them,
And poverty e'en let them bear:
Theer's Jenny hes larnin', and manners,
And Wully can match onie yen;
We tought tem my guid fadder's maxim,
And they'll bliss the auld fwok, when geane.
And willinly toil thro' the year;
Our duty we ay hae duin ti' them,
And poverty e'en let them bear:
Theer's Jenny hes larnin', and manners,
And Wully can match onie yen;
We tought tem my guid fadder's maxim,
And they'll bliss the auld fwok, when geane.
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Theer's ae thing I lang, lang hae pray'd for,
Sud tyrant Deeth teer thee away,
And rob me o' life's dearest treasure,
May he gie me a caw the seame day!
If fworc'd to resign my auld lassie,
I cuddent lang linger my leane;
I'd creep to thy greave, broken-hearted,
Wi' thowts o' the days that are geane.
Sud tyrant Deeth teer thee away,
And rob me o' life's dearest treasure,
May he gie me a caw the seame day!
If fworc'd to resign my auld lassie,
I cuddent lang linger my leane;
I'd creep to thy greave, broken-hearted,
Wi' thowts o' the days that are geane.
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CAREL FAIR.
My neame's Jurry Jurden, frae Threlket;
Just swat down, and lissen my sang:
I'll mappen affword some divarsion,
An tell ye how monie things gang.
Just swat down, and lissen my sang:
I'll mappen affword some divarsion,
An tell ye how monie things gang.
Crops o' aw maks are gud; tateys lang as lapstens, an dry as meal. Teymes are sae sae; for the thin-chop'd, hawf-neak'd, trimlin beggars, flock to our house, leyke bees tot' hive: an our Cwoley bit sae monie, I just tuck'd him up i' th' worchet. Mudder boils tem a tnop o' Lunnen Duns, ivery day; an fadder gies temt' barn to lig in. If onie be yebel to work, wey he pays tem reet weel. Fwok sud aw dui, as they'd be duin tui; an it's naturable, to beg, rader nor starve or steal; efter aw the rattle!
Some threep, et the teymes 'll git better;
An laugh to see onie repeyne:
I's nae pollytishin, that's sarten,
But Englan seems in a decleyne!
An laugh to see onie repeyne:
I's nae pollytishin, that's sarten,
But Englan seems in a decleyne!
I ruse afwore three, tudder mwornin,
An went owre to see Carel Fair;
I'd heard monie teales o' thur dandies—
Odswinge! how they mek the fwok stare!
An went owre to see Carel Fair;
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Odswinge! how they mek the fwok stare!
Thur flay-crows wear lasses stays; an buy my Lword Wellinten's buits; cokert but nit snout-bandet. Mey sarty! sec a laugh I gat, to see a tarrier meakin watter on yen o' ther legs! They're seerly mungrels, hawf monkey breed; shept for awt warl leyke wasps, smaw it' middle. To see them paut pauten about, puts me i' meyn o' our aul gander; an if they meet a canny lass, they darn't turn roun to luik at her. The “Turk's Heed,” an “Tir'd Spwortsman,” are bonny seynes, but a dandy wad be far mair comical; efter aw the rattle!
But, shaf o' sec odd trinkum-trankums!
Thur hawf-witted varmen bang aw:
They'd freeten aul Nick, sud tey meet him—
A dandy's just fit for a show!
Thur hawf-witted varmen bang aw:
They'd freeten aul Nick, sud tey meet him—
A dandy's just fit for a show!
I neist tuik a glowr 'mang the boutchers,
An gleymt at ther lumps o' fat meat;
They've aw maks the gully can dive at—
It meks peer fwok hungry to see't.
An gleymt at ther lumps o' fat meat;
They've aw maks the gully can dive at—
It meks peer fwok hungry to see't.
“What d'ye buy! what d'ye buy?”—“Weya, boutcher, wul te be out et our en o't' country, suin? we've a famish bull, nobbet eleebem year aul; twee braid-backt tips, an a bonny sew.” “Nea bull, tips or sweyne for me!”—“Hes te got onie coves heeds
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Wheyle peer fwok wer starin about tem,
Up hobbles an aul chap, an begs—
Oh' wad our girt heeds o' the nayshen
Just set the peer fwok on their legs!
Up hobbles an aul chap, an begs—
Oh' wad our girt heeds o' the nayshen
Just set the peer fwok on their legs!
An odd seet I saw, 'twas t'naig market,
Whoar aw wer as busy as bees;
Sec lurryan, an trotten, an scamprin—
Lord help tem!—they're meade up o' lees!
Whoar aw wer as busy as bees;
Sec lurryan, an trotten, an scamprin—
Lord help tem!—they're meade up o' lees!
“Try a canter, Deavie.”—Whoar gat te t' powny, Tim?”—Wey at Stegshe.”—“That's a bluid meer,” says aul Breakshe, “she was gitten by Shrimp, an out o' Madam Wagtail; she wan t' King's plate at Dongkister, tudder year.”—“Wan the deevil!” says yen tull him, “tou means t' breydle at Kingmuir, min!”—“Here's a naig! nobbet just nwotish his een! he can see thro' a nine-inch waw. Fuils tell o' fortifications; what he hes a breest leyke a fiftification. Dud ye iver see yen cock sec a tail, widout a peppercworn?”—“What dus te ax for em, canny man?”—“Wey, he's weel worth twonty pun; but I'll teake hawf.”—“Twonty deevils! I'll gie thee twonty shillin; efter aw the rattle!”
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What aw trades are bad as horse-cowpers;
They mek the best bargain they can:
Fwok say, it's the seame in aw countries—
Man leykes to draw kelter frae man!
They mek the best bargain they can:
Fwok say, it's the seame in aw countries—
Man leykes to draw kelter frae man!
Neist daunderen down to the Cow Fair,
A famish rough rumpes I saw;
For Rickergeate lwoses her charter,
Sud theer be nae feghtin at aw.
A famish rough rumpes I saw;
For Rickergeate lwoses her charter,
Sud theer be nae feghtin at aw.
Aa! what a hay-bay! it was just leyke the battle o' Watterlew. Men an women, young an aul, ran frev aw quarters. Theer was sec shoutin, thrustin, pushin, an squeezin; what they knock'd down staws; an brak shop windows, aw to flinders. Thur leed-heedet whups dui muckle mischief; a sairy beggar gat a bluidy nwose, an broken teeth, i' the fray. Hill-top Tom, an Low-gill Dick, the twea feghtin rapscallions, wer luggt off by the bealies, to my lword Mayor's offish; an thrussen into the black whol. I whop they'll lig theer: for it's weel nae leyves wer lost; efter aw the rattle!
Shem o' them! thur peer country hanniels,
That slink into Carel to feght!
Deil bin them! when free frae hard labour,
True plishure sud be their deleyte.
That slink into Carel to feght!
Deil bin them! when free frae hard labour,
True plishure sud be their deleyte.
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Ther was geapin an starin, 'mang aw maks—
“Aa! gies ty fist, Ellik! how's tou?”
“Wey, aw bais'd, an bluitert, an queerish;
We'll tek a drop gud mountain dew.”
“Aa! gies ty fist, Ellik! how's tou?”
“Wey, aw bais'd, an bluitert, an queerish;
We'll tek a drop gud mountain dew.”
“Sees te, Ellik, theer'st puir-luikin chap, et meks aw t' bits o' Cummerlan ballets!”—“The deevil! fye, Jobby, let's off frev him, for fear!”—“Here's yer whillymer; lank an lean, but cheap and clean!” says yen. “Buy a pair o' elegant shun, young gentleman,” cries a dandy snob, “they wer meade for Mr. Justice Grunt. Weages are hee, and ledder's dear; but they're nobbet twelve shillin.” Then a fat chap wid a hammer, selt clocks, cubberts, teables, chairs, pots and pans, for nought at aw. What, I seed fadder talkin to t' lawyer, an gowl'd tull my een wer sair: but nae mischief was duin; efter aw the rattle!
Then peer bits o' hawf-broken farmers
In leggins, were struttin about;
Wer teymes gud, they'd aw become dandies—
We'll ne'er leeve to see that, I doubt!
In leggins, were struttin about;
Wer teymes gud, they'd aw become dandies—
We'll ne'er leeve to see that, I doubt!
Sec screapin, an squeekin, 'mang t' fiddlers;
I crap up the stairs, to be seer;
But suin trottet down by the waiter,
For deil a bit cap'rin was theer.
I crap up the stairs, to be seer;
But suin trottet down by the waiter,
For deil a bit cap'rin was theer.
What lads an lasses are far owre proud to dance, now-a-days. I stowtert ahint yen desst out leyke a
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Sae we link'd, an we laugh'd, an we chatter'd;
Few husseys, leyke Jenny, ye'll see:
O hed we but taen off to Gratena,
Nin wad been sae happy as we!
Few husseys, leyke Jenny, ye'll see:
O hed we but taen off to Gratena,
Nin wad been sae happy as we!
We went thro' the big kurk, an cassel;
An neist tuik a rammel thro' t' streets:
What, Carel's the pleace for feyne houses,
But monie a peer body yen meets!
An neist tuik a rammel thro' t' streets:
What, Carel's the pleace for feyne houses,
But monie a peer body yen meets!
Aye! yen in tatters, wi'ae ee, shoutet, “Here'st last speech, confession, an deein words o' Martha Mumps: she was hang't, for committin a reape on—” Hut shap! I forgit his neame. Anudder tatterde-mallion says, “Come buy a full chinse Indy muslin; nobbet sixpence hawpenny a yard!” Jenny bowt yen; an it was rotten as muck. Then theer was bits o' things, wi' their neddys, rwoarin upt' lanes, “Bleng-ki-ship cwoals!” An chaps cawin
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Thro' leyfe, we hev aw maks amang us;
Sad changes ilk body mun share:
To-day we're just puzzen'd wi' plishure;
To-mworn we're bent double wi' care!
Sad changes ilk body mun share:
To-day we're just puzzen'd wi' plishure;
To-mworn we're bent double wi' care!
September 18, 1819.
173
THE WIDOW'S WAIL.
Now clwos'd for ay thy cwoal-black een,
That lang, lang gaz'd on me!—Oh! Wully!
An leyfeless lies that manly form,
I ay was fain to see; my Wully!
Ah! luckless hour, thou struive for heame,
Last neet, 'cross Eden weyde!—Dear Wully!
This mworn a stiffen'd corpse brong in;—
It's warse than deeth to beyde!—Oh! Wully!
That lang, lang gaz'd on me!—Oh! Wully!
An leyfeless lies that manly form,
I ay was fain to see; my Wully!
Ah! luckless hour, thou struive for heame,
Last neet, 'cross Eden weyde!—Dear Wully!
This mworn a stiffen'd corpse brong in;—
It's warse than deeth to beyde!—Oh! Wully!
The owlet hootet sair yestreen,
An threyce the suit it fell!—Oh! Wully!
The teyke com leate, an bark'd aloud;
It seem'd the deein kneel o' Wully:
Deep wer the snows, keen, keen my woes;
The bairns oft cried for thee, their Wully:
I trimlin said, “He'll suin be here”—
They ne'er yence clwos'd an ee—Oh! Wully!
An threyce the suit it fell!—Oh! Wully!
The teyke com leate, an bark'd aloud;
It seem'd the deein kneel o' Wully:
Deep wer the snows, keen, keen my woes;
The bairns oft cried for thee, their Wully:
I trimlin said, “He'll suin be here”—
They ne'er yence clwos'd an ee—Oh! Wully!
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An when I saw the thick sleet faw,
A bleezin fire I meade for Wully;
An watch'd, an watch'd, as it grew dark,
An I grew mair afraid for Wully:
I thowt I hard the powney's feet,
An ran, the voice to hear o' Wully;
The win blew hollow, but nae sound
My sinkin heart did cheer—Oh! Wully!
A bleezin fire I meade for Wully;
An watch'd, an watch'd, as it grew dark,
An I grew mair afraid for Wully:
I thowt I hard the powney's feet,
An ran, the voice to hear o' Wully;
The win blew hollow, but nae sound
My sinkin heart did cheer—Oh! Wully!
The clock struck yen, the clock struck twee,
The clock struck three, at four, nae Wully;
I hard, wi' joy, the powney's feet,
An thowt my cares were owre for Wully:
The powney neigh'd, but thou was lost;
I sank upon the ground, for Wully;
Suin, where I lay, appear'd thy ghost,
An whisper'd, thou wert drown'd—Oh! Wully!
The clock struck three, at four, nae Wully;
I hard, wi' joy, the powney's feet,
An thowt my cares were owre for Wully:
The powney neigh'd, but thou was lost;
I sank upon the ground, for Wully;
Suin, where I lay, appear'd thy ghost,
An whisper'd, thou wert drown'd—Oh! Wully!
The muin was up, in vain I sowt
The stiffen'd corpse o' theyne, lost Wully!
'Twill suin, suin mingle wi' the dust,
An nar it, sae wull meyne—Oh! Wully!
Gang, dry your tears, my bairns five!
Gang, dry your tears o' sorrow, dearies!
Your fadder's cares are at an en,
An sae may ours, to-morrow, dearies!
The stiffen'd corpse o' theyne, lost Wully!
'Twill suin, suin mingle wi' the dust,
An nar it, sae wull meyne—Oh! Wully!
Gang, dry your tears, my bairns five!
Gang, dry your tears o' sorrow, dearies!
Your fadder's cares are at an en,
An sae may ours, to-morrow, dearies!
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